


All The Stars In Texas

by Dansnotavampire



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bonnie & Clyde, But also murderers, Drinking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Its set in like the early 50s, Jacobis a gay loser and i love him, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi Chapter Work, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Transphobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Shooting, Soft boys are soft, Trans Daniel Jacobi, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-05 09:43:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13385196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dansnotavampire/pseuds/Dansnotavampire
Summary: Gifted to my stunning alpha reader and favourite person, Nancy





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nancypants (cah_avengers)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cah_avengers/gifts).



> Gifted to my stunning alpha reader and favourite person, Nancy

One of the first things that Daniel discovers about being in prison, is that the floors are fucking cold. The beds are, too, and they're hard enough that it doesn't make much of a difference which one he sits on. He still sleeps on the bed, but that's just because the guards threw a hissy fit the one time he didn't. 

 

Another thing he learns is that, if you're there by yourself, it's fucking  _ boring _ . He's received one letter whilst he's been here; a note, that just said  _ Thank you. I meant what I promised.  _ He knows what it means. No one else needs to, so people who ask him about it get told to go fuck themselves. It kind of makes making friends difficult, but that's fine. They all know who Daniel Jacobi is anyway. Whispers of his feats follow him, some admiring, some doubting, some confused as to how he could give up his own freedom all for a man who hasn't shown any signs of worrying about him. 

 

That man's name is Warren Kepler. Bank robber, murderer, all-round criminal. He's the other part of our story, the Cassidy to Jacobi's Longabaugh, the Bonnie to his Clyde. 

 

Daniel sits on the cold, hard, floor of his cell, and he remembers Warren Kepler, how they met, their lives together. 

 

Their story. 


	2. Heavy Hand and Bourbon Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting started!

The lights of the bar are dim, the floor sticky linoleum, the wood of the countertop tacky with spilt beer. Daniel Jacobi is sat in the corner, on a slightly cracked seat, nursing a glass of whiskey that tastes like rubbing alcohol and trying to make himself as small as possible. There are three men sat at his table, their postures bent so that they fill his space, enclosing him in, almost cage-like.

 

“What're y’drinkin’, pretty thing?” one of them asks, his voice a wet growl, thick with a heavy smokers cough. 

 

“Whiskey.” 

 

“Whiskey, huh?” one of the other men chimes in. “Ain't that too much of a  _ man's _ drink for ya?” 

 

“I am a fuckin’ man, buddy,” Daniel mutters, but he doubts that what he says is going to matter.

 

“Sure,  _ Betty _ ,” the man says, voice loaded with malice and mockery. 

 

Daniel's hand tenses on his glass, and he lifts it, trembling, to his lips. He drains it in one smooth swallow, ignores the way it burns his throat. 

 

The third man scoffs. “Maybe she is actually a man, boys! Or maybe,” his face takes on a lecherous smirk, and he reaches over, grasps Daniel's hand in his own and turns it over, runs calloused knuckles over the soft skin of Daniel's forearm, “she's just trying to impress us.” He grips harder when a shudder runs through Daniel. 

 

“Get the  _ fuck _ off of me,” He snaps, and tries to pull his arm away, but he's got three glasses of whiskey in him, and shit hand-eye coordination to boot. He doesn't manage to release his hand, and braces himself for an afternoon of being touched up, manhandled like a piece of meat, until these men get bored, and leave him alone.

 

He's certainly not expecting someone to step out of the shadows, grip creep number one by the back of his neck, and say “I believe the gentleman told you to  _ get the fuck off of him. _ ” He's expecting it even less when this tall, handsome stranger bashes the creep’s head into the table when he fails to comply.

 

He releases Daniel's arm at that, and stands up, his two cronies following suit. “Fuckin’ watch it, buddy,” he snaps, and makes to throw a punch at the tall strangers face. 

 

He catches the fist, bends the creep's arm down, torquing his wrist unnaturally. “You might want to watch yourself, friend. I think it would be wise for you to leave now, don't you agree?” He lets go, and the other man's hand pings out of his grasp, a red ring already visible around it. The creep glares at him, but it's obvious that he's going to lose this fight, should he pursue it. He shoves past him, a little unsteady on his feet, and storms out of the bar, the other two following him. The stranger spits in their wake, and mutters “Good fuckin' riddance,” before he pulls up a chair at Daniel's table, and sits down. 

 

Daniel coughs. “And how’d you know that I wanted you to sit there any more than I wanted them?” 

 

“Sorry, friend,” the stranger says, and stands. He motions to the empty chair opposite Daniel's. “May I sit?” 

 

Daniel laughs. “Sure, go ahead. ‘S nice of you to ask.” 

 

“I hope you didn't mind my stepping in there, friend, I just couldn't stand to watch a pretty thing such as yourself have to deal with bullshit from the likes of them. Can I get you a drink, uh?” 

 

“Daniel. Daniel Jacobi.” 

 

“Can I get you a drink, Daniel?” 

 

“Sure you can, uh…” 

 

The stranger chuckles at the unexpected symmetry of their conversation. “Warren Kepler. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

 

“Truly, the pleasure is mine, Warren,” Daniel says in a falsely affected upper-class accent - one that's nothing like Warren’s. (He still cracks a smile, though.) “Seriously, though, thanks for sticking up for me back there, I think that's… actually the first time anyone's ever done that for me.” 

 

Warren blinks, surprised. “Man as gorgeous as you, and no one sticks up for you in a bar full of  _ lecherous cunts  _ like that? Fuckin’ hell.” 

 

Daniel's cheeks pinken slightly, and he looks down at the floor of the bar. “Uh, thanks, I guess.” He runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. “Sorry, I'm, uh, really not used to this.” 

 

Warren snorts indelicately, a bemused look on his face. “I don't get how; I mean, you're the best lookin’ guy in this damn place. Still, gave me a chance to talk to you, so it can't be all that bad.” He finishes his sentence with a smooth smirk and a raised eyebrow. 

 

“I'm transsexual,” Daniel blurts out, before Warren can pile on any more charm, bolstered by a surge of unexpected confidence. “I wasn't born a man, and if you have any problem with that, you can fuck off right now.” 

 

“I figured. It doesn't matter, though.” 

 

“Does to most people.” 

 

“I'm not most people, Mr. Jacobi.” 

 

Daniel runs a hand through his hair again, and checks his watch. Fifteen minutes till he needs to leave for work, if he wants to be there on time.  

 

“Yeah, most people wouldn't be foolhardy enough to publicly hit on another man, would they?” 

 

Warren smiles, deadly and charming all at once, and well… 

 

Daniel's got twenty minutes, if he books it once he leaves. He'll have to chance his father's rage if he's late, but he looks at this man, at Warren Kepler, with his high cheekbones, and his cast-iron strength, and the way his amber eyes catch and reflect the lights inside the bar, and he decides that it's probably worth the risk. 

 

A few minutes later, he pulls a warm, rich laugh from Warren's throat with a poorly-timed pun shared over some  _ very _ expensive whiskey, and he decides that it was  _ definitely _ worth it. 

 

One of the bartenders, a stern middle-aged woman called Janet, reminds him that he needs to go after a while, and he says his reluctant goodbye to the enigmatic devil that is Warren Kepler, and resigns himself to never seeing him again. 

 

_ The extra five minutes were definitely worth it, _ he thinks later, as he bandages the wrist his father just sprained for no reason other than that he could. He knows that he's fractured two fingers, and that his ribs are bruised as well, which is probably the worst, as it'll make binding a bitch for the next few days. He just hopes that his father'll let him leave the house any time in the next week. And that he won’t have to hear  _ Elizabeth _ snapped at him again any time soon; because whilst Betty is bad enough, nothing compares to the sinking feeling in his stomach when he hears the iron in that monster’s voice, when he knows that  _ he. Fucked. Up.  _

 

He resigns himself to a few years more of dealing with this shithole of a town, and this shithole of a life where he has nothing left to lose, until he can afford to move out, and to a lifetime where he never sees Warren Kepler again. 

 

As it turns out, neither of those outcomes happen. 

 

A week later, he sneaks out of the house to go and buy some goddamn food, and maybe (hopefully) to get drunk again. There's a new cashier at the grocery store, someone he doesn't know who calls him “Young man,” and says “Have a nice day, Sir,” when he leaves, a rare smile on his face. 

 

He hears a voice, so achingly familiar - despite him having only heard it once - call his name as we walks down the street, bottle of whiskey in hand. 

 

“Daniel!” he hears again, followed by “Hold up!”

 

He spins around on his heel, ready to tell whoever this is to fuck off, because there's a bruise blooming over the side of his face, and his wrist still hurts, and all he really wants to do is go and drink his sorrows away  _ without  _ company, but… 

 

But standing there, an open, honest smile on his face, is Warren Kepler. 

 

“Hey, stranger.” 

 

_ Fucking hell. _

 

“I didn't think I'd be seeing you again,” says Daniel, when he recovers from his surprise. 

 

“Neither,” says Warren, as he falls into step beside Daniel. “Where're you headed, friend?” 

 

“You can call me Daniel, you know.” 

 

Warren smiles. “Fine - Where’re you headed,  _ Daniel _ ? And, if I may ask, what on earth happened to your  _ face? _ ” 

 

He lifts the bottle of whiskey he's carrying, and gestures towards an old bridge that the pair of them can just see on the outskirts of town. “I'm going to get drunk off of my ass, ask about the bruises when I'm less sober.” 

 

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to,” Warren says, hands open, a placating smile on his face. 

 

“No, no, I'll tell you,” Daniel replies. He runs a hand through his hair. “Just not when I'm this painfully sober,” he adds with a hollow laugh. 

 

Warren lets out a deep, throaty laugh, and slings an arm round Daniel's waist, tucking a possesive thumb through his belt loop. “Show me where you go to drink then, Daniel.” 

 

Daniel tucks his hand into Warren's pocket, and walks him down to a rickety steel bridge. 

 

Daniel winces as he bends his knee to sit down on the smooth rocks under the bridge. The riverbed’s dry, will be until rain begins to fall again in late autumn. For now, the late afternoon sun bakes down on them as they drink, and talk. Daniel strips his shirt off after an hour and four mouthfuls of whiskey, revealing a further scattering of dark bruises over his ribs. Warren sucks a breath in, before letting out a low whistle. 

 

“What happened?” he asks, a tender expression on his face. Daniel flinches when he reaches over, but Warren only takes his hand in his own, and holds it gently. 

 

When Daniel just continues to look at their clasped hands in silence, Warren prompts him again. “Daniel,” he says, in a soft whisper, “What happened? Who did this to you?” There's an edge to his voice, a barely tempered fire of righteous anger. 

 

A shaking sigh rattles through Daniel. “It was my fucking father, alright! I left the house at the wrong time, and he was in one of his moods, and he broke two of my ribs before he passed out. The past few days have been… hell, to be honest. I can't wait to fuckin leave this place.” 

 

“‘S there a reason you're staying?” 

 

“Nah, except for the fact that I'm broke,” he says, making a gesture with his arm that seems to encompass the entire surrounding area, “I mean look at this, it's not like I've got anything to lose, is it?” 

 

“You could come with me,” Warren says, his voice barely a whisper in the now-clear night air. 

 

“When will you leave?” Daniel asks, his voice just as quiet. 

 

“Whenever you're ready, if you come with me.” He still speaks in a whisper, as if he's afraid that if he's too loud the moment will shatter, and all this gentle courtship will have been for nothing. 

 

“And if I don't?” asks Daniel, twisting round to face Warren, ignoring the pain that shoots through his ribs when he does so. 

 

“Oh, when the law catches up with me,” says Warren. At Daniel's confused look, he expands “I'm a thief. Petty theft, a few banks. A couple of museums.” 

 

Daniel's eyebrows raise, his eyes widen a little. “Fucking hell,” he murmurs, and sits up, “You're a modern-day Clyde Barrow.” He doesn't sound disapproving or even doubtful; maybe there's just something about Warren that makes him seem like the kind of man to hold up a bank, or maybe Daniel just doesn't care. 

 

“Care to be Bonnie Parker?” Warren asks, a sly smirk on his face.

 

Daniel laughs. “Sure.”

 

Warren takes another swallow of whiskey, (for courage, he'd say) and mutters, uncharacteristically nervous, “I hope I'm reading this right.” 

 

Daniel inhales sharply, and holds his breath. 

 

Warren leans in, and gently presses their lips together. Daniel freezes for a moment, then presses back, gently exploring Warren's chapped lips with his own. The kiss is chaste, and barely lasts three seconds, but both of them are still breathless when they pull away. 

 

“Yeah,” Daniel breathes, his face mere millimetres away from Warren's own, “You did read that right.” 

 

He bends back in for another kiss, this one longer, softer, so hot it burns.  Warren's hands move, one threading through his hair, the other moving to rest in the gentle curve of his waist. His own hands go to Warren's shirt, tangling in the fabric and pulling him  _ impossibly  _ close, the heat he gives off a perfect blanket against the chill night air. 

 

They pull apart, slightly, still close enough, though, that Warren's honey and whiskey scented breath still ghosts over Daniel's skin, and that Daniel can see the flecks of gold in Warren's amber-brown eyes. “Pretty,” he murmurs.

 

“Yeah, you are,” Warren quips back, mirth in his eyes. 

 

“I was talking about you.” 

 

“I know. My point still stands, though - you are  _ incredibly  _ pretty. Like a diamond,” he muses. “I'm almost tempted to just steal you away.” 

 

“So why don't you?” 

 

“You barely know me; what if you don't really want this? You'd be an outlaw, Daniel.” 

 

“I know you well enough to know that the future you offer is better than any I'll have here.” 

 

“Even if that future leads to an untimely death?” 

 

Daniel laughs, exhilarated and amused all at once. “At least I'd have the right name left wherever you buried me,  _ Sir _ ,” he says, the honorific dripping with sarcasm. 

 

“Well that attitude’s gonna have to change, Mr. Jacobi,” Warren says, but he's smiling. 

 

“What,” he says - mouths, really - into the side of Warren's neck, “Need me to show you some respect?” 

 

Warren pulls him away from his neck, and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. “I need to know if you genuinely  _ want  _ to come with me.” 

 

“Yes, I do,” Daniel says, without a second thought. “Steal me away, Warren Kepler.” 

 

Warren kisses him again, just because he can. “It's getting late,” he murmurs, practically into Daniel's skin. “You should go home.”

 

“Yeah, I should,” Daniel replies, making no sign that he's going to move from Warren's lap.

 

A light huff escapes Warren's lips. “Seriously, Daniel, you should go home.” 

 

“I know. I will, soon.” 

 

“I'll see you again, if that's what you're worried about.”

 

“When?” 

 

“As soon as you're ready to leave, I imagine.” 

 

Daniel bites on his lip, thinking. He then pulls a pen out of his pocket, and scrawls an address on the back of Warren's hand. “Be there, tomorrow, at around midday. My father should be out. We can…” He cuts himself off, his face breaking out into an uncontrollable grin. “We can leave then.” 

 

“That soon?” 

 

“What, it's not like I've got any goodbyes to say, is it?” 

 

“Guess not. But-" 

 

“But I should go. I know.” Daniel extricates himself from Warren, and the two of them stand up. 

 

Warren presses a delicate kiss to the inside of his wrist. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he says. 

 

“Yeah,” Daniel says. “You will.” He presses a last kiss to the side of Warren's face, before he turns and walks home, the alcohol putting a spring in his step. 

 

He gets the best sleep that he's had in six months that night. 

 

He's woken the next morning not by drunken yelling and an ear-splitting headache, or by a shrill alarm and freezing temperatures, but by a gentle knock at his bedroom door, and a gravelly voice whispering in apologetic tones. “Betty?” it says. “Are you awake? I'm sorry about the other day, I just wish you wouldn't  _ dress _ like that. I don't  _ want  _ to hurt you, do you understand?” 

 

Daniel tunes the voice out, for while it sounds apologetic, it also belongs to a man with iron fists and a complete lack of remorse, a penchant for violence and destruction and apologising only when he wants something. He gets out of bed, and dresses. He sighs after he finishes, and a sharp pain shoots through his ribs. He pulls his shirt off, and carefully removes the bindings from his chest.

 

Then he thinks of Warren Kepler, a man who is as much his saviour as he will undoubtedly become his prison, and he smiles. 

 

It still hurts for him to breathe, but it's easier. 

 

He checks the time; it's just gone 10 am. He grabs his clothes from his closet, shoves as many as he can in the bag he bought on a whim, in the desperate hope that someone like Warren Kepler would happen to him. With the clothes, he packs some books of a more than questionable subject, and a bottle of pills acquired for him by a doctor who could be aptly described as his only real ally in this town. 

 

He shoves the bag back in his closet and goes downstairs, combing his fingers through his hair in lieu of brushing it properly. He slips quietly down the stairs, and makes himself a slice of toast, before padding into the living room, expecting it to be empty, his father having gone to work. 

 

He hadn't. 

 

He's sat on the sofa in a grimy shirt, a greasy sandwich half eaten on a plate in front of him. A chill runs down Daniel's spine, and he shudders, slightly. 

 

“Oh,” he says, carefully schooling his face into a neutral expression, “Didn't you have work today?” 

 

His father grunts. “Nah, swapped shifts with someone. Won't go into work till one.” 

 

_ Shit.  _

 

“Oh, why?” 

 

“Wanted to spend some time with you, Betty _. _ We haven't had a proper conversation in a while, thought I'd check in with my favourite daughter.” 

 

Daniel gives his standard reply, says he's doing fine. Doesn't complain about how his degree is useless in this shitty town, doesn't mention how he is an only child, doesn't mention that he isn't even a daughter, because it's easier to let all of this wash over him. He'll be gone soon, with a man he doesn't know but already knows is better for him than this town. A man he doesn't know that he's going to fall in love with; just that he likes the taste of his lips and the feel of his skin. 

 

And it's then, at 10 to 12 on a Tuesday morning, that Daniel Jacobi gets a knock on his door. 

 

And when he opens that door, stood there is Warren Kepler, with his bag slung across his shoulders.

 

“You ready to leave?” he asks, debonair smirk and cockily raised eyebrow on his face. 

 

“Who is it?” Daniel's father calls from the lounge. 

 

And… well.  _ Shit.  _   
  
  



	3. Prettiest Thing I've Ever Stole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again all the thanks in the world to Nancy for. Being fabulous

To reiterate:  _ Shit. _

 

“Fuck,” Daniel mutters under his breath, before calling back to his father. “Just a friend!” 

 

He laughs, not in an amused way; a mean cackle, full of spite and malice. “Really,  _ Elizabeth _ , a friend? Of yours? Definitely.” 

 

Daniel flinches at the ice-cold tone of his voice, and the sudden change in demeanour, despite the fact that the most dangerous man in this building is decidedly on  _ his  _ side. Said man catches his elbow, and whispers “Let me speak to him. I won't let him touch you.” 

 

“Are you sure you could stop him?” Daniel replies, but he leads Warren into the lounge anyway.  

 

Warren unconsciously squares up to Daniel's father, his jaw setting, his arms tensing. His fingers flex over his hip, where Daniel is fairly certain that he's keeping a gun. 

 

“Yes,  _ Sir, _ I am indeed a friend of Daniel's,” he says, as much toxic hatred dripping off of the honorific as did off of the other man's tongue earlier. Daniel's father clenches a fist, and sits up straighter, recognising the challenge in Warren's tone. 

 

“I think you mean you're a friend of  _ Elizabeth's _ . I don't know a ‘Daniel’.” 

 

Warren reaches a hand over to where Daniel's stood, stiff as a board, and pulls him into him. He kisses Daniel, then tells him, quietly, to go upstairs and get his things. “I'll sort this out,” he says, and flexes his fingers over his hip again. 

 

Daniel goes upstairs, pace calm but fingers shaking, and grabs his bag. He hovers at the top of the stairs before he goes down, listens for signs of what could be happening. There's what sounds like a brief scuffle, his father grunting as he takes a hit. 

 

Daniel pads down the stairs, trying to be quiet - a skill he's found rather useful in the past couple of years, since his father started getting bad again. He watches from the bottom step as Warren wrenches his hand from where Daniel's father has it caught, and snatches a gun from his waistband. ( _ ‘Ha,’  _ Daniel thinks,  _ ‘Called it.’ _ ) 

 

Daniel inhales sharply when Warren points the gun at his father's head, arm straight, elbow slightly relaxed, posture steady. He inhales through his nose, out through his mouth, and pulls the trigger. He doesn't flinch, doesn't tense up, just tucks the gun back away. An unexpected thrill runs through Daniel as he watches this, Warren's calm, almost cold demeanour, and the brutal efficiency with which he carries out the whole task far more attractive than it should be. 

 

Warren turns to move towards the stairs, and freezes when he sees Daniel on the bottom step. He recovers quickly, and relaxes completely when he sees the brilliant smile that covers Daniel's face when he sees his father’s corpse lying on the floor, a pool of crimson-wine blood staining the cream carpet. 

 

Daniel spits at him, then turns to Warren, and catches his lips in a searing kiss. There's blood spattered across them. It tastes like iron, but  _ he _ still tastes of expensive whiskey and cheap cigarettes. The familiarity is a comfort, as is Warren's hand looping round his waist, and walking him to the car. 

 

“Are you okay?” he asks, and though they haven't known each other long enough to really tell, the concern feels like an unexpected treat from Warren, a gift that feels rarer than diamond and more precious than starlight. 

 

“Yeah,” Daniel replies. “I'm glad to see the fucker gone.” 

 

There's a heavy pause in the air, neither of them speaking as they chuck their bags into the boot and climb into Warren's car. Daniel's on edge, his stomach feeling as if it's on the edge of a cliff until Warren breaches the silence with a sigh.

 

“I didn't mean for you to see that,” he says. 

 

Daniel's stunned, momentarily. “It doesn't matter. He's dead, I'm not, and I never have to see him again.”

 

Warren gives a sly half-smile. “You don't care, do you?” 

 

Daniel returns the smile, eyes half-hooded and glimmering. “Nope. Not at all.”

 

The silence returns, but it's no longer awkward, filled with the tension of a dead body and a broken past. It's a silence that doesn't demand to be filled, doesn't demand to be crammed with barely meant words and half-assed conversation. It only wants to be there, to exist and be existed in, like a comforting blanket. (Or a lover’s embrace.) 

 

The silence leaves when Daniel laughs to himself, quietly, as if he meant to not even vocalise his amusement. At Warren's quizzical eyebrow, he just says “This… was probably the dumbest thing I've ever done.” 

 

Warren's grip tenses almost imperceptibly on the steering wheel, and he adjusts his hands to cover the motion. “Do you… regret it?” he asks. 

 

“God, no.” Daniel answers, the  _ ‘obviously not’  _ that he doesn't vocalise evident enough in his voice. 

 

Warren's shoulders drop a few bare millimetres, and he relaxes. Then Daniel kicks his feet up on the cream leather dashboard, and he reaches over to lightly slap them off. 

 

Daniel flinches, ever so slightly. Warren's hand returns to the steering wheel, and Daniel's feet return to the floor. 

 

“Sorry,” he says. 

 

“No, don't be,” comes Warren's reply. “It's my fault.” 

 

_ Huh. That's never happened before. _

 

“Don't, uh, worry. About it. It's fine.” 

 

“Just… tell me - if I ever do something you're not comfortable with.” 

 

“Yeah, I, uh, I will.” 

 

_ ‘Goddamnit, I am not used to this’  _ Daniel thinks, because, well - he simply isn't. The niceness - someone actually  _ asking  _ him to tell them if they do something wrong - it's all completely alien to him. 

 

Warren reaches over and takes his hand. “Is this okay?” 

 

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” 

 

They drive in silence, hand in hand, until they get to a shitty motel. They crossed the state border an hour or so ago, and Daniel feels as free as the wind. He practically floats across the parking lot, Warren walking next to him. They don't touch each other, but it doesn't matter. They get a room with a double bed, because it's cheaper, and because they want to. Warren pays in cash, and loops his arm around Daniel's waist the moment they're out of sight of the receptionist. 

 

They dump their bags by the bed, and Warren goes to take a shower - there's still blood spattered on his face, in his hair. It's kinda hot. 

 

Daniel strips into sleeping clothes whilst he's showering - a loose shirt and boxers - and then grabs one of his books out of his bag, and settles down to read. Ten minutes or so later Warren steps out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, drops of water running down his body. 

 

Daniel folds his book shut. 

 

He lets his gaze drag over Warren, taking in the glow of his tanned skin, the corded thickness of his muscles, the light marks of scars littering his body. There's one in the joint of his neck, a thick slice of smooth, pink collagen. Daniel is filled with a sudden, consuming urge to lick it. 

 

Warren gives a low, rough chuckle. “See something you like?” he says, taking a step towards where Daniel is laid on the bed. 

 

“Fuck, yes,” Daniel replies, voice barely more than a breath. He props himself up, and relishes in the way that Warren's anticipation quickens his breath. Warren kneels on the bed, the towel still tucked around his waist, somehow. 

 

Warren puts his hands on Daniel’s waist, slides them up under his shirt. “Is this okay?” he asks. “We don't- you don't have to move this fast. A lot’s happened - we can wait, if you want.” 

 

Daniel - for all that he knows it's going to ruin the moment - laughs. “You're sweet, Warren, really-” his voice drops an octave. “But goddamnit, I want you any way you're willing to have me.” 

 

Warren smiles, and strips Daniel's shirt off.

 

Daniel loops his arms up around Warren's neck, and kisses along the side of it. He licks a long stripe over the scar in the joint there, and a small moan leaks out of Warren's lips. Daniel presses his nose into Warren's neck, smells the faint traces of cologne there. 

 

Warren shifts, and pulls Daniel into his lap. “This okay?” he murmurs. 

 

“Yes, god, fucking-" he breaks off with a moan when Warren nips at the crook of his neck “-if you stop-" 

 

Warren drags his hands down Daniel's sides, to the waistband of his underwear. “Still good?” 

 

Daniel nods, and Warren divests him of his remaining clothes. He lays him back down on the bed, and bends over him, his mouth hovering above the soft skin of his stomach. “And this?” he murmurs, hot breath ghosting over Daniel’s skin. Daniel simply raises an eyebrow, and Warren waits for a yes with a light smirk dancing on his face. 

 

Daniel sighs. “Yes, please, fuck-" his voice hitches when Warren's lips drop to his skin, and the rest of his words are lost to a high moan as Warren pulls the kiss further down the line of his body. Daniel's hands go to Warren's hair, his fingers tangling in the long strands when Warren's tongue presses into him. A slight readjustment, and Warren's gripping his thighs, feeling the muscles under Daniel's skin tense as his tongue flicks over his clit. 

 

He brings two fingers up and presses into him, crooking them in a way that makes Daniel's hips buck and an almost embarrassingly loud moan escape his lips. 

 

Minutes later, Daniel comes with a shout, Warren’s name just barely tucked away under his tongue. He stretches languidly after he collects himself, and offers to return the favour. 

 

Warren shrugs. “I've already taken care of it, don't-" he cuts himself off, rephrases what he was going to say. “I like getting people off.” 

 

With a wicked smirk on his face, Daniel says “Enjoy it enough to do it again?” 

 

“Of course,  _ mon ange _ ,” says Warren, his smirk mirroring Daniel's own, and he bends back down to settle between the other man's legs again.

 

\--------

 

Later, after a (second) shower, the two of them are tangled up together on the shitty motel mattress, Warren’s hand resting in the dip of Daniel's waist. Daniel's snoring softly, his head resting on Warren's bare chest. Warren considers leaving, just for a second. Not permanently, or even for the whole night - just going out for a smoke, and to pick something up from a drop. 

 

He really ought to go. He has a job to do, even with an unfortunate burgeoning emotional attachment. 

 

He looks back down at Daniel, with his soft skin and rough stubble and messy hair, and tucks his head back down to go to sleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos sustain me as a life force blease and thabks love You all


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